COQUETTE DISCOURSES.
"I think your cousin is very fond of you," said Lady Drum, with a
good-natured smile, to Coquette. They were running up the blue
waters of Lochfyne, before a light and steady breeze. The Whaup had
concealed himself at the bow, lying prone, with the barrels of his
breech-loader peeping over the rail.
"Oh, yes, I am sure he is," said Coquette, seriously. "He will do
anything for me--he has dared to fight disagreeable people for me--he
has got into danger for me--he is very kind--and just now, look! he
is trying to get for me some wild bird--I do not know its name--which
has beautiful feathers."
"All that is nothing," said Lady Drum, taking Coquette's hand in
hers. "Don't you think that some day or other he may ask you to
marry him?"
The elderly lady who was now looking at Coquette's face, expected--as
elderly ladies do expect when they begin to tease girls about
love-affairs--that her companion would blush, and protest, and be
pleased, and affect to be indignant. On the contrary, Coquette said,
simply and gravely--
"Yes, I have thought of that. But he is too young."
"And you also, perhaps. In a year or two he will be a man, and you
will be marriageable."
"Then," said Coquette, dubiously, "it may be. I do not know, because
my uncle has not spoken to me of any such thing; but he may think it
a good marriage, and arrange it."
"Bless me, lassie!" exclaimed Lady Drum, in amazement. "Is it true
that folk make slaves of their children in that way in France? I
have heard of it; I did not believe it. In this country girls
arrange their own marriages."
"That, too, is very good," said Coquette, "when it is with their
parents' wish. It is of more consequence that a girl pleases her
parents than herself, is it not?"
"And make herself miserable all her life?" said Lady Drum, startled
to find herself arguing--in defiance of all precedent--on the side of
youth as against age.
"But that does not happen," said Coquette. "Now one of my good
friends in Nantes--she was told by her parents that she had to marry
a young gentleman who was coming home from the Martinique, and had
never been to France before. I remember she and her parents did go
down by the railway to St. Nazaire, when they heard the boat had
come; and a week or two after I did see Babiche--that is Isabella,
you know--and oh! how proud and happy she was. And they are married,
and live at Palmbœuf, just across the river; and Babiche is as
happy as she can be. But then," added Coquette wistfully, "the young
gentleman was very good-looking."
They were interrupted by a loud "bang!" at the bow. The Whaup had
fired at a couple of guillemots that were some distance off on the
water; but they had "ducked the flash," and Coquette was not enriched
with any of their plumage. Then she resumed:
"What I do think very good is this," said Coquette, "when your
parents speak of a marriage, and it is left not altogether fixed; but
all the same, if they die, and you are left alone, and you have no
friends, there is the one person who comes to you and says, 'Now I
will take care of you,' and you know they would have approved. And
the same it is if you have got into trouble--suppose that you did
become miserable through making an attachment for some one who does
not care for you--there is always this good friend who likes you, and
you can marry, and forget all that is past, and be like other people
for the rest of your life."
Lady Drum could scarce believe her ears. Had she been called upon to
argue on the usual side, she could have repeated those admirably wise
maxims which elderly ladies have at their command (and which they
never thought of obeying in their youth); but surely things were
ordered differently in France when this young creature--whose soft
dark eyes were apparently made to steal men's hearts away--could be
found gravely arguing a business-like view of love affairs, which
even a shrewd and able Scotchwoman would have scrupled to advance.
"You mean," said Lady Drum, "that French girls like their parents to
choose a husband, so that, if they have an unfortunate love affair,
they can still fall back on this substitute?"
"Oh, no," said Coquette; "you do say things harshly. But who knows
what might happen?--and if your old _fiancé_ is still faithful--and
would like to marry--you make him happy, do you not?"
"And is that the _rôle_ you have sketched out for your good-natured
cousin?" asked Lady Drum, rather vexed with this plain enunciation of
a theory which, although it was based upon filial submission, seemed
to her to have dangerous elements in it.
"Ah, no," said Coquette, gravely; "I hope I shall never have to go to
him and say that I am willing to become his wife only because I am
miserable and unhappy. He deserves something better than that, does
he not?"
"And so do you," said Lady Drum, in a kindly fashion. "You must not
go anticipating misfortune for yourself in that way. You must forget
the notions those French people put into your head. You will take to
our simple Scotch habits--and you will marry the man you love best,
and not any substitute at anybody's bidding. A pleasant courtship--a
happy marriage--and an even, comfortable, respectable life, that is
the custom here."
Indeed, Lady Drum's notions of romance had been derived chiefly from
the somewhat easy and confident overtures made by Sir Peter while he
was yet a young man, and had a waist. The gay and rotund Sir Peter
at no time would have looked well in the character of Manfred; and
his performance on a guitar under his mistress's window would have
been but indifferent. Lady Drum knew she was as happy as most
married women; and hoped that these dangerous French ideas about wild
love affairs being atoned for by an after-marriage with a substitute
chosen by relatives, would not be translated into the uncongenial
atmosphere of Western Scotland.
"I thought," said Coquette, "that the Scotch people were very hard in
their obedience to duty--and against pleasure and comfort. Then I
said to myself, 'Alas! I shall never become Scotch.' But now I do
think on one point I am more dutiful than you. I would marry anybody
that my uncle and all of you considered I ought to marry."
"And make love to somebody else, as is the fashion in France!" said
Lady Drum, with a touch of anger.
"It is no such fashion in France," said Coquette. "It is only that
the Scotch are ignorant of all people but themselves--and think
nobody so good as themselves--and are suspicious!"
Lady Drum's anger broke into a smile at the pretty vehemence with
which Coquette fought for her country-women; and at this moment Lord
Earlshope came on deck and asked what was the matter in dispute.
Coquette caught Lady Drum's hand, and pressed it. The old
Scotchwoman looked at the girl, and saw that she was quite pale--a
circumstance that puzzled her not a little in after moments of
reflection.
"Well," said Lady Drum, obeying Coquette's unspoken entreaty, "we
were talking about--about French schools for the most part."
Further inquiry was rendered impossible; for at this moment the yacht
was running into the harbour of Ardrishaig, and there was a good deal
of bustle on board. The Whaup came aft also, taking the cartridges
out of his gun; and began to make vague suggestions about lunch.
Finally, it was resolved that, so soon as Mr. Cassilis could be
prevailed on to remove his books and writing materials from the table
of the saloon, they should go down to have that meal which was
troubling the mind of the Whaup, and so escape the tedium of the
preparations necessary for going through the Crinan canal.
Why was Coquette so silent and _distraite_ when--after a long and
solemn grace from the Minister--they began the French-looking repast
which had been served for them?
"You are still thinking of the pension, are you not, Miss Cassilis?"
said Earlshope. "You should give us some initiation into the
mysteries of so sacred a place. Was there anything romantic about
it?"
"Our pension was full of mystery and romance," said Coquette,
brightening up, "because of two German young ladies who were there.
They introduced--what shall I call it?--exaltation. Do you know what
it is? When one girl makes another _exaltée_, because of her
goodness or her beauty, and worships her, and kisses her dress when
she passes her, and serves her in all things, yet dare not speak to
her? And the girl who is _exaltée_--she must be proud and cold, and
show scorn for her attendant--even although she has been her friend.
It was these German young ladies from the Bohemian-Wald who
introduced it--and they were tall and dark, and very beautiful, and
many would have wished to make them _exaltées_, but they were always
the first to seek out some one whom they admired very much, and no
one was so humble and obedient as they were. All the pension was
filled with it--it was a religion, an enthusiasm--and you would see
girls crying and kneeling on the floor, to show their love and
admiration for their friend."
"And you--were you ever _exaltée_?" asked Lord Earlshope.
"No," said Coquette, with a little shrug. "One or two of my friends
did wish to make me _exaltée_, but I did laugh at them, and they were
angry. I did not wish to be cruel to anyone. I did prefer to go
about and be friends with everybody in the middle of so much
distraction."
"And did you never exalt anybody?"
"No, it was too troublesome," said Coquette. At which Lady Drum
smiled.
"It seems to me," observed the Whaup, coolly, "that it was a clever
device to let a lot of girls make love to each other, for want of
anybody else. It was keeping their hand in, as it were."
"It is a pity you were not there," said Coquette, graciously. "We
should have been charmed to make you _exalté_."
"And do you think I'd have treated any of you with scorn?" said the
Whaup, with a grin, and quite ignoring Coquette's retort. "No. Far
from it, I should have----"
The Whaup glanced at his father, and paused--indeed, his father was
calmly regarding him.
"You would have gone from one to the other," said Lord Earlshope,
gravely, "and persuaded her that she was the victim of a
hallucination."
"In worshipping me?" said the Whaup. "Well, now I call that a very
good bit of sarcasm. There is no spite in it, as in women's
sarcasm--but a clean, sharp sword-thrust, straight from the shoulder,
skewering you as if you were an eel, and as if you had nothing to do
but wriggle."
"Thomas," said the Minister, severely, "you are not accustomed to
take so much claret."
"That, sir," replied the Whaup, with perfect coolness, "is why I am
helping myself so liberally at present, with Lord Earlshope's kind
permission."
Lady Drum shook her head; but Coquette laughed in her low, quiet
fashion; and the Whaup familiarly nodded to Lord Earlshope, as much
as to say, "Gave it to the old boy that time."
Then, having fetched hats and shawls from their respective
state-rooms, they went above and got on shore, setting out to walk
along the banks of the Crinan until the _Caroline_ should get clear
of the locks.